


the virtue's in the verse

by translorastyrell (nerddowell)



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Canon - TV, I think?, M/M, Pining, Song Lyrics, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-23
Updated: 2020-04-23
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:00:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23796535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nerddowell/pseuds/translorastyrell
Summary: He’d much preferred it when he’d believed witchers incapable of feeling. It had made dealing with the pathetic, hopeless, soul-crushing crush on Geralt much easier. If the witcher couldn’t feel anything for anyone, it wasn’t personal. But no, instead it was just that Geralt didn’t wanthim, plain and simple and heartbreaking.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 3
Kudos: 93





	the virtue's in the verse

**Author's Note:**

> I may or may not have been listening to _Her Sweet Kiss_ on repeat for the last week or so. This is the result. Sorry, not sorry.
> 
> Title from _Poet_ by Bastille because it's a Dandelion song; catch these hands if you disagree.
> 
> Unbeta'ed because it's 2:12am and I'm impatient.

The gutter outside the Old Narakort stinks of shit and moss and general filth when Jaskier wakes up in it, having been unceremoniously flung out of the inn doors last night. The city of Vizima is dull as iron, impenetrable in the storm of rain that has been pouring for days and that now soaks him to the bone. He’s still drunk and his stomach rumbles uncomfortably, a reminder that he’s been living on a steady diet of ale and nothing more since Dorndal, where the last of his coin ran out. And, despite being the most skilled bard on the Continent, it doesn’t seem that anyone wants to listen to him at the moment.

He can’t blame them. He’s not been able to write anything even half-decent (not that he’d ever permit himself to perform anything that wasn’t perfect. He is with his lyrics, the way Geralt is with his swords - and isn’t that a painful thought? A painful thought that smells of lilac and gooseberries, and tastes of disappointed hopes and the metallic sting of blood.) since their parting months ago.

 _The fairer sex, they often call it_ , he thinks bitterly to himself. _What a joke._ Oh, he’s sure it’s more than a little unfair to blame Yennefer for his current state of being, but it makes him feel better to do so, and he’s always been more than a little petty. It was one of the things Geralt disliked about him, among, apparently, myriad others. His heart hurts when he thinks of the witcher’s narrowed cat’s eyes, seeming to actually flash with anger as he spat out words that wounded Jaskier deeper than his swords ever could. Until Yennefer had turned up at the Pensive Dragon, it had been just Geralt and Jaskier, just their small, tight-knit team. Jaskier had been able to come up to their room above the inn after a quick tumble with the barmaid - he was only human! - and find Geralt there waiting for him. But then she’d walked in, and he swears he’d actually _seen_ Geralt’s chest bulge with the leap of his heart.

He’d much preferred it when he’d believed witchers incapable of feeling. It had made dealing with the pathetic, hopeless, soul-crushing crush on Geralt much easier. If the witcher couldn’t feel anything for _anyone_ , it wasn’t personal. But no, instead it was just that Geralt didn’t want _him_ , plain and simple and heartbreaking. And so Jaskier had taken to drowning his sorrows in as much ale as it took for him to forget for the night, and then, after that, as much as he could afford that night. Which meant he spent far too many nights wide awake and nursing a mug of ale like every other drunkard in Temeria.

He thinks about Geralt approximately every three seconds. Wonders what adventures he’s having, what monsters he’s slain; which villages he’s saved from the claws of kikimores and which ports, from drowners. People ask him, whenever he’s recognised - less and less so lately, as his silks grow faded and tired and his face wan with drink and lack of sleep - to regale them with songs of the White Wolf’s latest exploits. He refuses. After all, he’s got nothing and less to say.

Other times, he runs through everything he’s learned about Geralt so far, purely to torture himself. The witcher sleeps on his back, frequently naked - undoubtedly because the one pair of ridiculously tight leather trousers he owned inevitably ended up caked in the innards of whatever monster he’d last hunted, and Geralt was never one to carry more than absolutely necessary, which apparently had included smallclothes - and occasionally snores. His hair, in what little weak light was able to penetrate the milky glass of inn windows, looked like a spill of liquid silver on the pillows. There were scars covering every inch of his skin, from bites to claw marks, and Jaskier knew each and every one’s story. The five vicious silvery ropes twisting over Geralt’s shoulder and the base of his throat from the striga-princess as the cock crowed for the third time; the twin punctures at his right shoulderblade, from a fleder whose abnormally huge fangs Geralt still kept on his belt as trophies; the spatter-spray of burns along his left thigh from an endrega queen outside Flotsam.

He tries to keep the thoughts of Geralt’s body to a minimum. _That_ is a can of worms he doesn’t want to open again, not now, not ever.

Inevitably, thoughts of the witcher circle back to thoughts of his sorceress, and of the two of them together, and then Jaskier’s heart hurts all the more. His stomach twists, bile rises, and he vomits into the gutter, bringing up nothing but a weak trickle of bile. His head pounds.

 _She’s always bad news_ , he thinks. _And it’s always lose-lose. I lose Geralt, and Geralt loses her. How is that just?_

He picks himself up, pushing his sodden fringe out of his eyes, and sighs heavily, heading for the city gates. Maybe in the next town, when he walks through the inn doors, there’ll be a familiar white head of hair, a pair of eyes like amber, and a spare seat at his table. Or maybe not.

But Jaskier is nothing if not hopeful.

_But the story is this_ _  
__She’ll destroy with her sweet kiss_  
 _Her sweet kiss_

**Author's Note:**

> I say 'fight me' a lot for someone who couldn't even swat a fly without looking up a how-to guide first.
> 
> I completed the PC version of _The Witcher_ a couple of days ago so may have accidentally made reference to game-canon rather than TV canon. I admit I haven't finished reading the books yet, so I apologise for any inaccuracies in that regard.


End file.
